Victim

I originally wrote this for a local writing contest, but I didn't win. I revised it to submit it to here. I was originally trying to think of an idea of what to write, going "Gaaah! I'll miss the deadline! What to write?!!!" Until I was browsing through anime soundtracks, until I found one called "Satetsu", meaning "Setback". The music of pain and tragedy was so touching that I just grabbed my notebook and pencil and just started writing.
Who is the true victim?
When you think, "victim", you think of the one attacked or hurt. However, the victim is not always just that. Toyed with by insanity, emotions ripped to shreds, the guilt and regret burying you alive, the "villain" is in pain. Who is the "victim"?
Can you answer that in a whole, undeniable truth?

“Miss, if you would, please relay the incident to us?”

I shifted the scratchy, pure white sheets around me, hoping to find what comfort I could in my insipid hospital bed. The atmosphere, however sterile, was oppressive and I hoped to be soon rid of it.

Taking in an unsteady breath of stale air, I gazed at the young man clad in a navy blue uniform. To some, it represented protection over the weak. However, to me it was a symbol of the tears shed in endless and utterly hopeless tragedies.

The man, catching my blank look, fidgeted anxiously and swiftly let needless words fumble out of his mouth without a care. “Uh, it’s okay if you don’t want to. It can wait for another time, when the,” he paused warily, cautiously eyeing me as he stumbled and hurried out of his metal chair, making his clumsy way to the towering, bland door. “When the emotional impact isn’t as strong.”

“No,” I sighed wearily, staring at the window parallel to my stiff bed. Though I could see the bustling city from such a high view, I could still catch a vague glance at my gaunt reflection. My eyes were blank and were missing a light that they had possessed, once upon a time. However, if you inspected them thoroughly, you would be able to gaze at an entirely new side of sorrow. Misery could only be defined very roughly by what you heard of. Tragedy can morph a person into something unrecognizable.

He sat back down in the chair not a moment after I had uttered anything. I closed my eyes. I was tired. My head hurts. And my soul is bleeding out. Without taking in any breath to sustain me, I thrust myself into my memories, without any guarantee of return.

“Stop it! STOP IT!! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!” I screamed hopelessly. The one who I had previously cherished turned his exhilarated face at me, his chest heaving at the adrenaline rush it had just received. I cried out in a twisted mixture of agony and misery as he turned around fully, revealing that red was splattered sloppily on every article of his clothing. Scrunching my eyes shut fearfully as I prepared for what was to come, I gulped in nauseating air before looking behind him. I now was gazing at a beaten, slashed up lump of flesh. The body was so mutilated and bloody it was surely unrecognizable to any others aside from myself. I screamed out in horror as I witnessed my little sister begin to bleed to death. “KIKI!!” Rushing over to my barely alive sister, I let tears flow down my face. My ex-boyfriend grabbed a hold of my rumpled up, torn t-shirt and harshly shoved me back into my family’s coffee table. As I sensed something warm flow from the top of my head, I desperately pleaded. “I’m so, so sorry. But-“ I took in a shaky, teary breath, and stared him in the eyes. Those eyes truly held madness within. “Please don’t hurt Kiki anymore! She’s only eight! She has nothing to do with anything!” “Little Kiki always meddled in our relationship. She was becoming an annoying nuisance and a burden in our dating life. Probably a factor of why you left me.” “No, no, no, no!! Please wake up from this nightmare you’re having!!” I sobbed to the snowy white, carpeted floor. If I was speaking to him or myself, I did not know. I don’t know anything anymore. Eyan’s eyes held a bit of shock to them, and his baby blue eyes flooded with tenderness. He cautiously walked towards me and crouched down while gently putting his arms around me. He started to shake as light sobs echoed through the air. Were they his or were they mine? I don’t know. I can’t tell. “I’m so sorry, I just… I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’m utterly appalled for what I made you go through. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me, though I don’t expect you to.” I felt something warm and salty drip down his face as our skin met. He whispered into my ear, the care in his voice reaching out to my heart. “Please don’t be sad anymore. If you’re really telling the truth, then you can go to heaven.” The pure carpet was stained with red.

My mournful silence signaled the end to my woeful tragedy to which there was no return. The officer regarded me with pity swirling around in his eyes. “Ah…Your sister’s waiting for you, by the way. Her injuries weren’t fatal, but the trauma has forced her to bury the memory deep in her subconscious.” “May I speak with her?” The youthful police officer smiled at me warmly as he replied, “Of course.” I thanked him feebly as he opened the door for my sister, my Kiki. A soul so full of life, so full of joy, now needed to steady herself on the doorframe . My heart shattered into one thousand glass pieces, slashing my soul delicately with each one. “Hey,” I greeted quietly. “Want to go someplace more quiet, like the rooftop?” I sheepishly asked her. She turned her head toward my repulsive, bland hospital meal. “Do you want to take your, uh, dinner?” Kiki still had enough energy to joke, apparently. I felt relief surge through me. “Of course,” I replied tenderly. Kiki waved adorably at the officer as she thanked him and I adjusted the cool, steel knife and fork on my plastic, beige tray as we made our way up the stairs.

“Henry!” A uniform clad woman burst into the room where another policeman was preparing to leave. “Yes?” he questioned curiously. “Investigations have shown that it was Eyan Withers who broke up with Austeria Spring, not vice versa.” The newly arrived officer informed Henry. “What?” He gasped instinctively. “Eyan’s friends told us that he was invited to the Spring household by none other than Austeria herself on the day of the his death and the attack. The elderly couple living in the house next door made the 911 call because they heard large amounts of shouting and clattering from the house next door. The couple themselves could not distinguish the voices, but they stayed on the phone long enough so that we could record what was heard in the background. We magnified the sound levels, and this is what we got,” she finished, pressing “play” on her phone. The room was instantly filled with a recorded male voice screaming, “STOP IT!!”

I’m tired. My head hurts. And my soul is bleeding out. Drip, drop. Drip, drop. Can you hear it? Can I hear it? I don’t know. I don’t care.

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